A study in constrats: On the screen, a slender Oriental man of fierce demeanor pounds savagely against a giant Japanese drum. The drum is at least twice his size. The drumsticks are cudgels. The thunder is enormous, the rhythm totally absorbing. If you look close, past the flapping kimono sleeves, you can see that his fists have been taped closed over the drumsticks, the fingers of his hands long since exhausted past any capacity to hold on.



Beside me the same man, wearing a blue jogging suit; is doing in several slices of a typically greasy New York pizza.

This is Kitaro? Enigmatic Japanese synthesist, cultural hero, reputed hermit?
Well, yeah.

Back to the screen: It's fireworks time now, and Kitaro has become a living dragon. Held tight to his side is a bamboo cylinder about four feet long that has been wrapped in thick rope. The cylinder's opening is right next to his head, and from that opening a column of fire spouts thirty feet or more into the glow of approaching dawn. The camera moves in for a close-up of Kitaro's face, serene and stoic against a pyrotechnic torrent of windblown sparks.
Beside me the same man has finished the pizza-and is now draining a liter of Coca-Cola.
This, l think to myself, is going to be interesting.
Nearly all of Kitaro's albums begin with the sound of water. Sometimes crashing ocean waves, sometimes gently running streams, sometimes the hushed susurrus of rain in forest trees-but again and again, water: changeless in the broad perspective, constantly changing when examined closely. That's not a bad metaphor for Kitaro's music itself. With at least a dozen albums and soundtracks to his name, he has created a body of recorded music that has been wildly successful while completely defying all corporate standards of what is "commercial." People who don't like it will tell you it all sounds the same, that it is remarkably naive, that it neither ` rocks nor swings and has no energy. People who do like it (and they are legion, especially outside the States; Kitaro is one of the biggest concert draws ever in Asia, the only man to play both Taiwan and Communist China) will tell you that it has plenty of energy, but energy of a different kind, and that it moves steadily, as nature does, in a constant passage from one state to the next. They treasure exactly the naivete that Kitaro's detractors hate, and ask what kind of cynic it takes to dislike the musical equivalent of sunrises and thunderstorms.
It may be true that one Kitaro album sounds a lot like another-but is this such a bad thing? After all, Kitaro is shooting for timelessness. He is deliberately straddling listeners beyond the things that bind them-and he succeeds.
What makes the musicwork, naive or not, is that Kitaro is sincere. His music matches his spirit, and he has come by both quite naturally.
Born in Central Japan in 1953 to a family of Buddhist/Shintoist farmers, he was raised in comparative isolation and an atmosphere of calm. Forget your Western images of the farmer as agribusinessman-_ most of the corn, rice, radishes, and spinach his family grew was for their own consumption, not for market. Music didn't figure into Kitaro's life at all until he was a senior in high school. There, at least, he did things in a way most of us will be familiar with: He picked up an electric guitar, learned it by ear, and played R&B and Beatles covers in a seemingly endless string of bands. But he had switched over to keyboards by the time he started recording albums with the Far East Family Band in the early '70s; and it is keyboard work which has been the basis of his music's development and eventual success.
While in England with the Far East Family Band Kitaro met Klaus Schulze, who showed him there was more to synthesizers than he had previously considered. [Ed. Note: For an interview with Schulze, see Keyboard, May '83.] The explorations that that meeting inspired eventually found their way onto his first and second solo records, Astral Voyager (this is Kitaro's title; the Geffen catalog lists it as Astral Voyage) and Full Moon Story, which established him as Japan's premier pop synthesist in much the way that Keith Emerson dominated Europe during the same period.
Kitaro's big break came with Silk Road, a documentary soundtrack job for Japan's national television network, NHK. This one-shot, about the overland trade route from Europe to Japan, proved so popular that it spawned a series that ran for five years and made Kitaro a star. And not just in Japan, either, but all over Asia, and then Europe as his albums were released there, and even-in 4n underground way-in the States, when his European and Japanese releases hit the import lists. The most recent sign that Kitaro is onto something is that Geffen Records (not a company known for their championing of unlikely causes) signed him to a worldwide deal in early 1986. They put out one blitzkrieg release of seven albums in midsummer, and now they've released Tenku, his newest and the first recorded specifically for Geffen.
The career and the music are a lot easier to describe than the man.
Partially it is the contrasts: Westerners prefer to deal with contradiction by ignoring one thing or the other, not by adopting both wholeheartedly. Kitaro, on the other hand, works with both the highest and lowest of technology in his recording. He tracks a Kurzweil 250 against obscure ethnic hand instruments acquired in his travels. He records in a very well-equipped private studio, but since it happens to be in his home in the Japanese Alps he typically throws open the window and lets the trees and birds cut their own backing tracks. He beats ceremonial drums until his hands are bloody, then wanders around the meadows of his farm passing and punting a football. (Direct quote, and we're not kidding: "It's unbelievable how far American quarterbacks can throw the ball!" This from a man who recently threw a private concert, in a cave with some considerable religious significance, where his music was strictly backup to a series of traditional Japanese floral arrangements!)
No, it's not a small world. It's a very, very large world. But it certainly folds together in funny places.

You didn't start naking musicuntil you were 18, and then what you got into was electric guitar. It's quite a distance from "Dock Of The Bay" and "Day Tripper" to what you're doing now.
Yes, it is a long way. When I started in music I formed and played in a typical cover band. But around the time I was 19 I wrote my first original tune. It wasn't rock and roll, or anything in particular, just a song. I composed it on my guitar. I liked composing, so I wrote more songs, and played them in various groups I formed in the following years. I don't know that there was any dramatic change in my personal life that was responsible for the changes in my music. It was, rather, a natural sort of transition. Playing in bands was good, but keeping these groups together was a difficult task. I learned other instruments out of necessity. One of my group members was killed in a traffic accident, so I had to learn to play keyboards. When my bass player got sick, I had to learn to play bass. The same was true for drums. But of all of them I was drawn to the keyboard rather strongly, and that was the start of my present course in music.
When I finally tired of dealing with groups, I decided to go solo: I was in my early twenties, I was thinking more seriously about my own music, and it was just natural that I would eventually want to go it on my own. It was something of a challenge to see if I could do it by myself. That was Astral Voyager [1978], the first product of my combining my desire to compose with deep personal thought. Then I landed the NHK television documentary project, Silk Road, and the rest has just been a natural progression. I've been composingand recording solo works ever since.

You are very prolific.
Yes, that's true. In 1980 alone I recorded four albums. When I compose a piece, I start with a mental picture-a painting, really. For me there is always a sound associated with that mental image. So when I sit down at my instruments and recording gear, I already have the sound in my head. It's a process of laying down the tracks to re-create the music in my mind. As I record, of course, I will modify and embellish the sound as I see fit. With the new album, Tenku, I wanted to create something that was like a childhood dream; when I started, that was my overall theme. I tried to recall the dreams and fantasies I had as a child, and each track represents one oft hose fantasies-like sprouting wings and flying away to some far place, or crossing the boundaries of time.
I "played" in the music much as a child would play in his fantasies, devoting three months to bringing these images together. It wasn't three months of constant work, but a period in which I'd put in several days at a time-typically ten days-of heavily concentrated effort. When I work, I barely sleep or eat. But then I rest to regain my energy. Each of the "dreams" in Tenku represents many hours of composition and recording in this fashion. But together, the pieces are one work. I like to think of each of my albums as a whole work, with the individual tracks like movements in a classical composition.

Let's talk tools.
As you know, I use a combination of synthesized and acoustic sounds. I like my synthesizers, and I like my acoustic instruments. I also like and use natural sounds.
But what about your actual working relationship with your tools? What do you think, for example, about your Yamaha DX7 as opposed to your Kurzweil 250 as opposed to your piano as opposed to your traditional Japanese drum?
You mentioned the DX7. It's an impressive instrument. It can produce a wide range of sounds-some of them quite natural-and it does it all rather inexpensively. I do feel it lacks a certain warmth, but I like the instrument. And the Yamaha people are very helpful. I can go to the Yamaha factory with specific requests for modifying certain sounds, and they'll work with me to get the instrument to produce the sound I want. I also like my Kurzweil, not only because it lets me do sampling, but also because it has a wide range of tonal capabilities and its sound quality is generally excellent. Of course, it's expensive-but it's worth it. I use the Kurzweil quite a bit in my recording. That company, too, has been very cooperative in helping me get what I want out of the instrument. I think they make a great product, though one that is difficult to master. The Kurzweil importer in Japan provided me only with the original English manual. I had to have a friend translate the whole thing for me, and even with that I found the Kurzweil difficult. Using the instrument's display to create sounds involves a heavy mental conversion process. I've started to use the Macintosh computer to program the instrument, and that helps. But it's still not an easy instrument to use.
I guess my most pronounced preference is still for analog synthesizers-for example, the Minimoog. I like analog synthesizers because I feel I can really create totally new sounds from scratch. Digital synthesizers, more often than not, force you to build with factory-programmed sounds. It's hard to describe, but I feel that analog synthesizers are better suited to my music because it is born of mental images. That's why I will continue to rely more heavily on these instruments than on the digital variety. In addition to the Minimoog I use the Roland Jupiter-8 and the Korg 700/800 DV (double-voice).

Your position as a synthesizer player is certainly secure. But since you began recording, the synthesizer industry has completely changed, with your countrymen's products coming to dominate. How do you feel about this from your perspective as a Japanese synthesist?
I think the strength of the Japanese companies lies in their ability to bring tremendous technological and manufacturing know-how to bear on producing a large number of instruments with a tremendous range of capabilities for mass consumption. I feel that Japanese manufacturers are, by and large, making instruments that are almost toy-like-there's no real quality there. I'd like to tell these companies to turn their attention and capabilities toward producing really great, world-class instruments. If the quality is there, I don't mind paying for it. Forget about trying to cram the most features for the money into an instrument. Give me real quality. I find that a lot of Japanese equipment I use, for example, can't stand up to the rigors of concert use.

Those are strong words.
Well, I think all manufacturers are genuinely trying to make a good product and giving their designs a lot of thought. It's just that a lot of companies seem to lack a design policy-there's no attempt to create and maintain an identity, and their products often reflect a hasty reaction to what their competitors have done.

What about your acoustic instruments?
I own a traditional Japanese drum-a large, old, expensive thing. It appeals to me because it is an instrument that has only one surface to strike, only one way to produce sound. But that's the beauty. Within that limitation is a wide tonal variety that can be produced. With just two sticks and one surface I can express a tremendous range of emotions very directly. I like to believe it lets me convey a lot of power-the musical and emotional power that is in me. I also play the conventional drum set, the harp, and other traditional Japanese instruments like the koto. And I'm an avid collector of native instruments from other countries. For example, I've played many Indian instruments on my recordings, such as the sitar and santool, and whenever I make foreign trips I return with lots of instruments. Interestingly, I tend to buy native acoustic instruments in Europe and Asia, but when I come to the U.S. I usually seek out new electronic instruments.

You are entirely self-taught. Has that helped or hurt you as a musician?
I've never liked the way they teach music in Japan, so, in that sense, I'm glad I didn't study music formally there. When it comes to playing instruments, my compositions have driven me: I've always taught myself to produce the sounds that I needed. Playing the harp, for instance, I practiced until I was satisfied that I could play the parts I wanted. A normally trained harpist might look at me and find fault with my technique, but I don't think that makes my playing less valid. What counts is that I have achieved the sound I set out to achieve for my music.

How is music taught in Japan?
My objection to the way music is taught in Japan is that it is too rigid in many ways. Typical teachers at Japanese music schools try too hard to make students fit a preconceived pattern. There is too much emphasis on technique and not enough on the music itself; there is no heart in their teaching.

Still, is there anything you wish you played better?
Yes. The violin. I've always used my synthesizers to produce string-like sounds. But I own a violin-a good one-and I want to be able to play it in my recordings. So I'm busy practicing now.

But what happens when an instrument-say, that violin-is just impossible to learn well enough, in a short enough time, for you to capture what's in your head? Doesn't that ever frustrate you? What about the argument that being selftaught leaves a musician with inadequate technique?

Certainly, I experience those frustrations. Sometimes I rely on technology to get around the problem. For example, if it's a matter of not being able to play a passage up to tempo, I can record it more slowly and then speed it up mechanically or electronically. But techniques like that are a last resort. I will always do everything I can first to play the passage, so I can record it real time.

What about the use of sequencers?
I haven't used sequencers very much in my recordings thus far, but I can foresee using them more. They can help overcome deficiencies in instrumental technique. But I don't like using sequencers for repetitive phrases. Somehow it comes out sounding too mechanical. That's why I've always manually played my passages, wherever possible. As for MIDI, I haven't used MIDI for recording very much at all, though I am exploring using it to save me tracks on my tape recorder, thus expanding my capabilities. Where I have used MIDI sequences is when I perform dive, as in my latest Japanese concert tour, where I was using a Yamaha QX-I in combination with a TX816 rack and DX7 and DX5 keyboards.

Are you self-taught as a recording engineer, too?
My first multi-channel recording was made on an eight-track deck that I had personally modified to run at 30 ips. I've always had an interest in electronics, and did some studying on my own. When I needed to get more performance out of my tape deck, I knew what I had to do. As far as recording technique goes, I picked that up as I went along. I learned by doing.

Your official bio says only, "Kitaro met Klaus Schulze and discovered the synthesizer." There must be more to the story than that!
I met Klaus at Manor Studios in Oxford. I was there recording an album with the Far East Family Band for Virgin Records, and Klaus was producing. On one of our days off he and I found ourselves together in an impromptu session. During that session I noticed Klaus using the synthesizer in what I thought were unusual ways. He was playing on my Minimoog and producing sounds I had never heard from that instrument. It made quite an impression on me. I realized then that there were some unique and different ways of using this instrument.

Was that the start of a personal quest?
Well, it was an inspiration. I remember it even today. What I learned was that there were ways to use the synthesizer well above and beyond the instructions in the owner's manual. The book essentially tells you which knobs to turn or buttons to push to get certain sounds. Klaus's approach was completely different. It's a matter of constantly searching within yourself for new, fresh ways to approach the instrument-to go beyond what the manufacturer says you can do.

How do you avoid repeating yourself?
You know, I never feel exactly the same way year to year, month to month, or even day to day. I'm not the same person I was last year. I hope I am constantly growing. My music is always a reflection off where I am and who I am at the time I write it. With growth comes change. And so, in a sense, I don't think it's possible for me to do the same thing, the same way, twice.

Does the traveling you do contribute to that growth? You seem to take full advantage of the opportunities your music has provided you to see the world.
I've always traveled a lot, even before I traveled as a performing musician. just meeting many different people and hearing many different instruments and sounds has had, I'm sure, a profound effect on my personal and professional growth. I'll never forget one time in India when I listened to an old blind man play the santool. I was mesmerized. I thought to myself, "Here's a one-man Tangerine Dream."

You're a prolific performer, as well as recording artist, but some of your performances aren't exactly club dates. I'm thinking of the video where you were on a hill at dawn, beating an immense traditional drum, which I gather is a regular annual ritual for you.
Although I now live just a bit farther away, I used to-up until about seven years ago-live right on Mt. Fuji. During that time I got some very strong feelings from the mountain; it was almost as if Mt. Fuji were looking after me, taking care of me. I wanted to show my appreciation to this guardian, so I devised this ceremony. I perform it every year on a full moon night in August. It's really a prayer of thanks to Mt. Fuji. I set my Japanese drum on the mountainside and play for about 11 hours. Straight. I only stop when I fall unconscious, which will happen several times during a night, and I resume playing as soon as I regain consciousness. Toward morning, I have to tape my fists closed over the drumsticks in order to continue. Over the past few years this ceremony has been spreading. Friends of mine in several locations around Japan have set up their own drums and begun the ritual at the same appointed hour. Last August, some American Indian friends of mine joined me in this ceremony. Perhaps, one day, it could be a worldwide event.

If it's that physically punishing why do you do it?
I do it every year because of the gratitude I feel for the mountain. And that's really it. I don't think for a moment that by performing this ritual there will be some kind of reward later, in this life or after, or that some good will come to me because I do this. Nothing like that. Just gratitude. That's okay, isn't it?

It's fine. But it's tough to imagine an exact American equivalent. People here aren't generally willing to knock themselves out to that extent for so abstract a concept.
I will say this: performing this drum ceremony has put me in touch with a part of myself that I didn't know existed, a sense of "Wow, do I really have that kind of energy within me?" It's an incredible feeling to know you have that kind of strength within.

What about the fireworks in the event?
The town I grew up in happens to be famous for its fireworks. I became fascinated with fireworks and learned to make my own; in fact, I am now a licensed fireworks maker. I derive much of the same satisfaction and enjoyment from making fireworks that I do from recording my music. And it was my own fireworks that were used during the drum ceremony.

That's not something that you just pick up on a weekend. How did you get into this?
I just wanted to become licensed so that I could make and perform my own fireworks. So I read up on it and visited fireworks factories until I had learned enough to apply for my license. No special reason. I just wanted to do it. I n the town where I was born there are certain varieties of fireworks that are seen only in that town. They are hand-held. Explosives are packed into a bamboo cylinder, which is then wrapped tightly with rope. The thing shoots sparks up about 20 meters into the air. And since you hold the cylinder next to you, the fireworks are erupting from the opening right next to your face. You have to know what you're doing.

We're going to leap back to music.
Oh, yes. I remember now. I'm a musician.

Actually, I'm beginning to wonder whether you're a musician or something considerably different. You seem to be intent on living a life, a very specific life, and music is only one of the ways that that life is taking shape.
I'd agree with that. I don't really like to think of music as a profession. Of course, that's what it is, but for me it's considerably more than that.

What about more typical concerts? There's quite a contrast between your isolated composing and recording style and being in front of live crowds. What does performance give you that recording doesn't?
A composition or an album is a work of art, much as a novel or painting. When one records, one strives for perfection. Not that I don't strive for perfection in my live concerts, but it's not the same thing. At a concert I can react to the mood of the moment. If I really get into one piece, l can take it where I want, for as long as I want. Live performances communicate a certain kind of power that neither the performer nor listener can experience in recordings.

Given that you strive for perfection in your recordings, are there any you are more satisfied with than others for any reason?
Although I really do like all of the albums I've recorded so far, I feel particularly happy with Tenku. That isn't because it's the latest. Rather it has to do with its theme, the evoking of childhood memories. You see, I have a son who just turned two years old. There's a child's voice on one of the tracks; that is him, and so the theme and the pieces have special meaning for me.

Tell us more.
Well, there's a lot going on in the individual tracks, and I wouldn't know where to start. But I can tell you this. I labored over the final mix for each of the tracks more than I ever did with my previous albums. The engineering for Tenku was much more involved, more elaborate.

Why?
Much of my previous work was an outgrowth of the Silk Road project. Because it was an NHK television documentary series, the theme already existed, and I had to write to fit that theme. Tenku is something I created entirely on my own. Also, Tenku is the first album of mine that will enjoy immediate worldwide distribution through Geffen Records. I guess the combination of these things made me feel as though Tenku was something of a new beginning for meal wanted to be absolutely sure of every detail on the album. So I double-checked, triple-checked, and so on. There's something else, too. I n order to create Tenku I really returned to my own childhood. As children we have dreams, fantasies, aspirations. Not that we don't have these as adults, but somehow we were all at a purer, more elevated level of mind as children, before the world around us began to corrupt and pollute our thinking. Trying to return to this pure state of mind was not an easy task.

Do you feel your music is Japanese? To our ears there's a rather Western sound to a lot of it. In fact, much of it seems right in line with the Romantic tradition in Western music, as opposed to any sort of Japanese tradition or approach.
I like to think of my music as being universal rather than Japanese or Western. Each culture has its traditional music. When I think of Japanese music, I think of-oh, for example, the music one hears in the Kabuki theater. My music isn't "Japanese" in that traditional sense any more than current American music is traditionally "American." Now, that's not to say that traditional Japanese music doesn't have any influence on my work. Having grown up in Japan, I can't help but be influenced by my country's traditions. But I think the people of my generation have grown up listening to music of many cultures; and because I grew up listening to a lot of Western music, I can't help but be influenced by traditional Western sounds. I think you'll hear both in my music. To have relevance to the current generation of listeners, I believe new music should have this universal quality.

Even with the Geffen PR push behind you, Japan is still far away. Are there other people like you that we haven't heard about? Are you all alone doing this thing, or do you represent a wave of people in Japan who think in a similar fashion?
I believe there are others like me in Japan. I read about them in magazines. But because I hardly ever listen to other people's music, I can't tell you what their music is like.

Do you listen to anyone's music now?
I listen to my own music quite a bit. Not just because I'm writing it, either. I find, for example, that listening to my music helps me sleep better at night.

Editor's Note: While Kitaro's English was certainly good enough for him to understand our questions, it wasn't up to answering them in a manner that matched the precision of his thoughts. So we had a kind of three-way conversation, with Kitaro and translator Herron Apple man carrying on at great length, and having what looked to be a wonderful time, in Japanese. Every now and then Herron would take pity on us, give us the Cliff Notes version of what had just been said, and we'd ask another question. Herron later provided us with a complete translation of the results.